Phony
by dulankz
Summary: In a presumed utopia an author discovers how the truth can be elaborately hidden.


Phony

A sliver of light shone through the pellucid window, dancing around and embracing the night as the salmon and purple sky transformed into a vast expanse of jet-black. The pitter-patter of feet followed every stroke of my pen like an echo. Acting like clones, each said the same thing, wore the same things, and received the same dry response from me. They painstakingly waited for my handwritten symbol to be etched onto their books. Eventually, I grew weary and stood, not knowing what to do next. Any murmurs within the crowd all came to a halt. A deadly silence now engulfed the air; the crowd clearly anticipated a great speech or proclamation from their grand liberator.

Calmly, I stated, "I'm going for a walk."

A quite chatter broke out before an uproar suddenly arose from the crowd. Remarks of content and contempt all bundled into one, but it was all masked by a general disbelief that anyone did such a thing anymore. The relentless pursuit of efficiency in all aspects of life seemed to have stamped out that sort of leisure.

Stumbling down the stairs, I opened the store's door. The familiar sensation returned, of a neon knife lodging into my eyes. The seemingly ubiquitous e-billboards quickly emerged into view; I could feel their sharp holographic eyes pressing on my back. The government's logo- bright and cheery pink this time- stood in each corner, shouting "you'll always be safe when the government has your back!" I couldn't help but want sneer at that.

Looking back behind me, I could see the top of my building in its usual dormancy between the synthetic clouds which orbited its roof like a moon to a planet. The night rejoiced once again in a dance of illuminous lights. The cool winter breeze pressed its might upon my face, wiping the everlasting perspiration from my forehead. The streets were empty now-only the odd shuttle rushed past, filled with impatient workers rushing to get home. Even at this time of night, there was no darkness in sight, as the foot path under my feet lit up with every step I took. Each ten paces, the phrase "we've got your back," kept arising; proud and coated with neon it consumed the footpath, so much so that I started reciting it unconsciously. It had a certain ring to it that made you want to say it over and over again, day after day they made sure of it.

The air grew colder and my legs jolted with every step. It had been long since I'd walked any substantial distance that I'd forgotten how. After all, success brought with it a certain attendant advantage, like a centrally located apartment and a personal chauffer. Contemplating the story of my next book, I stumbled across a peculiar alley. Both walls, were tainted with a style of art unbeknownst to me; there lay the symbol of peace atop a beaten man. Such curious place seemed the perfect setting for my next anti-establishment novel, so I walked into the abyss. A few steps into the chasm, I was met with the sight of a huge mass of people, some milling around like angry sheep and others scrawled on the ground, being searched by spotlights. My eyes gazed around the scene and tried to determine if this was an elaborate dream; they finally fixated upon a woman's tattered garments, her bleeding faced, her blue and black legs and the spit that now covered her face. She said nothing; did nothing as the hand struck her again and again. The one who carried out this punishment wore a helmet emblazoned with government's logo. The girl's limp body lay dormant on the cold unforgiving floor.

I stood there, enthralled by the events occurring in front of me. Never before had I seen such brutality. It was like watching a scene from history, before the government stabilised the world. These people were like caricatures of the political dissidents that dominated my novels, but they were real and still rebelling. Despite what I wrote, it had never occurred to me that true political dissent still existed, within these invisible cracks on the outskirts of our always-shining city.

With My confusion growing, I turned and quickly retraced my steps. I had always been an intellectual rebel, a popular voice of social critique, a seer. Yet those people in the alley - weren't they rebels too? The question of why I was celebrated loomed over my head like a lone black cloud, until my mind arrived at an unsavory answer.

My mind ran in circles. In a single, momentary evaluation, I realised that my readers were all pseudo-intellectuals like me, happy to read and discuss among ourselves so long as we didn't have to act on our own anti-establishment rhetoric. And the government knew - they knew and left us to our rituals, because ultimately we did nothing. We were not like those figures being beaten in the alleyway - we were just ephemera to a system that we could never shake.

From high on the fiftieth floor, my window looked down at all there was and would ever be. A city of great ostensible prosperity, riddled with dark cracks of unrest that were smothered by the permanent bright lights. I looked at what I once took pride in resisting, and realised that it had never been real resistance. The government had its use for me, just as it did for everyone else.

The elaborate wooden chair in which I was sitting sunk its teeth into my skin, its expensive carvings a further reminder of my financial reward for peddling false rhetoric. The book I was reading lay open, resting on my lap. Its red and white cover stared back at me, blazoned with the title, _Catcher in the Rye._


End file.
